Fractals

By Alicia Anthony

From award-winning author Alicia Anthony comes a harrowing tale of redemption and revenge, fueled by the traumas that shape us.

 

High school science teacher Asher Thompson only wanted to help. He told himself that the night he pulled Carly Dalton, a rain-soaked teenager, from the floor of the local truck stop bar.

 

And now, with the girl's father dead and sister missing, he was doing it again, playing hero in a situation that was hitting too close to home.

 

But when Carly's brutal present exposes a chink in Asher's armor, compelling him to confront his own painful past, he's forced to make an impossible choice...protect his student or save himself.

 

And Asher already knows...

 

NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED.

 

***

Fractals is a pulse-pounding psychological thriller. If you like emotionally wounded characters, troubling tension, and gut-wrenching twists, then you'll love Alicia Anthony's harrowing read.

 

Content warning: This book contains depictions of human trafficking, abuse, and other dark topics which may be difficult for sensitive readers.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drury Lane Books
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733362474

Book preview

PROLOGUE

ASHER

Before…

---

Asher Thompson spun a beer between his thumb and forefinger and surveyed the bar. A thick haze of smoke, now from e-cigs rather than the real deal, permeated the air, shrouding the patrons in a veil of fog.

He’d been here three hours and still wasn’t sure why he’d come. This shit hole bar off an interstate exit to nowhere wasn’t particularly convenient. Located outside rural Brookside, Ohio, yards from some nondescript truck stop, where dingy men drowned their sorrows in the bartender’s cheapest escape. But why this place?

He tried to tell himself it was simple. Jo needed space and where else in this town could a teacher go at midnight on a Thursday night without fielding sideways looks from curious onlookers? Here, he was invisible.

He sighed and leaned against the hard wooden back of the corner booth. He pictured Jo, his ex, as he’d left her, shoving clothes into an already overstuffed box, tears leaving thin makeup free rivers down her perfect complexion. She needed time to think, she’d said. But what she really wanted was a chance to clean her stuff out of the house without interference. Not that he’d try to stop her. He deserved to be left.

He shook the internal scolding away and fingered the bottle in front of him, the glass cold against his fingertips. The gauze over the knuckles of his right hand buckled and twisted as he spun the near empty beer between his thumb and index finger.

Stiffness crept into his fingers, stopping the gentle sway of the bottle against the scarred table top. He examined the bandage and flexed his hand, extending the fingers until pain sliced from his knuckles through each digit. He forced himself to take it–feel every punishing sting–until his eyes watered. He let go of a pent up breath and relaxed his fingers, allowing his hand to fall into a loose fist.

He was lucky he hadn’t broken any bones. Like a drunk driver walking away from a fatal car crash, he hardly remembered the fight. But the fact that Jo’s coworker had survived without permanent injury–hadn’t even pressed charges–was a downright miracle.

That silver lining did nothing to soothe Jo’s anger, though. He’d lost control. Exposed the Mr. Hyde side of himself, one he’d kept hidden from Jo for the two years they’d dated. But now she knew. And she hated him for it.

Asher took the last swig from his bottle of Bud Light and rubbed his forehead, the gauze scratchy against the skin of his face.

Need some company tonight, sugar? The pro’s voice was syrup as she propositioned the man two tables over. But her eyes, laser focused on her prey, flicked up to Asher. The corner of her lip twisted, a smile maybe, as close as she could come to one.

Asher broke eye contact. He’d grown up around women like her. His jaw pulsed as he spun his beer again. He tried to ignore the driver slinging a coat over one shoulder, cashing out and following the siren out the door, braving the rain for what looked to be a well-worn piece of ass.

The plate glass window beside the front door glowed red behind the streaks of rain. The nearby truck stop marquee flickered, threatening to go dark at any moment. Truck-n-Go. Jesus. He shouldn’t be here. Flashes of his former life, ghosts he’d worked for the last seven years to escape, whispered in his ear. He sat tall, stretched his back and sucked in a lungful of the faux smoke-laced air.

He raked his gaze around the bar one final time. The off-the-beaten-path truck stop pulled in the clientele experience had taught him to expect. A handful of long haul truck drivers, drowning their over-the-road loneliness by looking for some company, just like the last guy.

Rising anger flirted with the edges of Asher’s consciousness, mingling with memory and tightening the muscles in his torso. He sucked in a breath for three counts and blew it out in an even stream, just as his shrink had taught him.

With the pro gone, there was only one other woman in the room–a past her prime waitress with a semi-toothless smile. Asher shook his head and laid some cash on the table. He needed to get out of this dump, find some nice respectable Applebee’s to hole up in until Jo texted to let him know she was done. Maybe get a room at the Holiday Inn across from Millbrook and call it a day.

He checked the time on his phone–Applebee’s was out of the question–and slid out of the booth, shrugging into his jacket as he walked. He’d only made it a few steps before the front door of the bar swung open with a too hard thwack. A flash of black left a trail of water, gliding from the entrance to the hunched over man at end of the bar.

Asher ignored her, weaving through the maze of tables toward the exit. He kept his head down, doing his best to overlook the familiar characteristics of the young woman tugging at the drunk’s elbow. Petite form. Raven hair. The defiant angle of her jaw. It wasn’t possible.

The girl spoke to the man in whispers.

Hateful comebacks spewed from the scruffy old man, the obvious regular who knew the bartender by name and had been drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Jack since Asher’s arrival.

The furtive plea in the girl’s voice wriggled its way into Asher’s memory, sent a stab of hope-laced regret through his chest.

Please, Dad, come home. I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

You didn’t mean to do it? Or for me to find out? the man forced the words without taking his eyes off his drink.

Asher was too close to ignore her now. She was young. The age of his students. Dark hair clung to the pale ivory of her face and neck in thin, wet ropes.

Can we just talk? she pleaded again.

Asher’s steps slowed.

Dressed in black from head to toe, her shirt–thin knit–clung to her curves, unbuttoned one button too far. Skinny jeans sucked tight against her calves and ass. Rain dripped from her clothes, her fingertips, the angle of her chin. Pull it together. Asher lowered his head, swallowing the unavoidable knot of recognition.

"Get out. I don’t want to see you. No one wants to see you," Drunk Dad slurred.

Hey, the bartender chimed in next, waving the girl away like a gnat. You heard him. Outta here. I ain’t risking my license for you lot rats. Take your business somewhere else.

Asher wondered where that attitude had been ten minutes ago when the pro had been scoping out her next john.

The girl dragged her eyes away from the drunk long enough to see the man behind the bar. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, Asher could read it on her face, in the way her lips began to curve around the first syllable. But she was distracted, uncertain. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the door. Fear?

She laid a wet hand on the drunk’s arm. Please, Dad–

The man jerked out of her grip. Don’t call me that. You’re not my daughter anymore, he mumbled. He didn’t even look as he swung a closed fist in her direction. His hand caught her in the mouth, sending her toppling backward onto the hardwood floor with a wet thump.

Asher rushed forward–instinct, more than purpose.

Are you okay? He’d said the same words to another girl once upon a time. Emily. He shoved at the ghost of a memory, reached for the flesh and blood crouched in wet clothes on the floor of a truck stop bar.

She stared at him. Met him with gray-blue eyes, a mix of hate and fear.

Asher pulled his hands back, palms up in defense. He whispered, I just want to help.

When she reached for him, he knew. Maybe it was the way her fingers splayed against his forearm, wet warmth gripping his jacket–grasping for a lifeline. Maybe it was a chance to undo the wrongs that haunted his every waking moment.

No matter the reason, he knew she’d crawl under his skin, worm her way into his life. She’d threaten what was left of the façade he worked so hard to create, dredge up a past he fought hard to forget. But in that moment, with restless onlookers and an irate bartender spewing hate speak behind him, he didn’t care. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

He expected a protest when he wrapped an arm around her waist, ushered her outside, but it never came.

What’s your name? he asked once the door swung closed behind them. They stood side-by-side under the narrow awning. Rain cascaded from the overhang, pelting them from inches away.

What do you want it to be? She pulled her hand away from her bloodied lip. Her young voice unnaturally rough and husky. He wasn’t the only one faking his way through life.

He laughed, a one-syllable chuckle. My name’s Asher–Asher Thompson. That your dad in there? He jutted his chin toward the entrance, working to keep his gaze on her face.

Her eyes shifted. A familiar wall sliding into position. She stayed silent. Gooseflesh rose along her exposed collarbone.

You’re drenched. I’ve got some towels in my Jeep. It was a statement. Nothing more. No intent. No malice. An innocent offer.

She nodded–two short bumps of her chin–and he led her across the lot to the passenger side, helping her in. The rain on his skin cooled him as he walked around the Jeep, forced reality in. Emily’s gone. This girl is not Emily.

He pulled towels from the gym bag behind the driver’s seat and passed them to the girl. If there was one silver lining from the fight, it was that he never made it to the gym that morning. He climbed behind the wheel and closed the door, cocooning them from the outside elements. Muffled drops of rain pattered against the metal roof, the only sound between them.

She towel-dried her hair, wrapping each rope strand in the white terry cloth and squeezing along the length before moving on to the next section.

Carly, she said finally. My name’s Carly Dalton. And yes, the jackass at the bar is my father. She checked her lip with the pads of her fingers, the bleeding had stopped.

Nice to meet you, Carly. Asher hesitated, his hands planted on the bottom of the steering wheel. How old are you?

Her silence forced him to look. She studied him–wary, uncertain. What does it matter to you?

He watched her hands, pulling and squeezing the fabric of her shirt just as she had her hair. She fastened that third button. Asher couldn’t help but notice her fingers, smooth and strong, but she chewed her nails–rough and too short. Her fingertips tinged in a metallic gray. She caught him looking, glanced down at her own fingers, and ran a thumb over the darkened tips.

Charcoal, she said. Her voice suddenly reflected her youth. I draw sometimes.

Asher remained silent. The urge to ask her what she was doing out here at night, dressed like that, threatened from the back of his throat. But he already knew why. And it was none of his business.

I’m sixteen, she said, finally. What about you?

Twenty-three, Asher reciprocated. I’m a science teacher at Millbrook Academy.

A tiny smile crept to the corner of Carly’s lips. A teacher. Wow. A bubble of sarcasm huffed through her lips. What are you doing out here so late on a school night?

Waiting. What the hell kind of answer was that? If she didn’t already think he was a creep, she would now.

Waiting for what? She caught his gaze and held, fearless.

Damsels in distress, I guess.

Carly shifted in her seat, glanced at the bandage on the back of Asher’s hand. That what happened to your hand? Defending someone’s honor? She tossed the wet towel onto the floor of the back seat.

Not exactly. Asher refused to say more. His reasons for the fight didn’t matter anymore.

Silence filled the space between them. When he ventured another look, her eyes reflected the light from the Truck-n-Go marquee. This place could use a knight in shining armor. She glanced toward the truck lot, her thunderstorm stare skimming once before coming back to him.

Where do you go to school? Asher never took his eyes off the curve of her jaw, the same soft angle Emily’s had.

Carly shrugged, jutted her chin in defiance. Well, I assure you, Mr. Thompson, it’s not Millbrook Academy. I’m more of a public school kinda girl, if you know what I mean.

Right, Asher responded.

Her eyes locked on his–teased, tempted. So, you going to offer me a ride home, or what?

ONE

CARLY

During…

---

Mr. Thompson once told me that when you look at tears under a microscope they have different qualities, varying patterns and designs depending on what kind of tears they are. Tears of grief, for example, are full of harsh right angles, shards of broken glass that have yet to vacate their frame. Tears of happiness, on the other hand, resemble the branches of a tree, extending up and outward as if reaching for the sky on a sunny day. I wondered what my tears would look like under Mr. Thompson’s microscope.

Over the last seventeen years, I figured I’d cried enough to fill the chipped plastic bathtub in the dump we called home several times over. A lump surged in my throat, threatening, and I bit the inside of my jaw, staving emotion away, and picked at the corner of the sketch that lay in front of me, curling the paper’s edge.

Today’s tears would be different. I bet Mr. Thompson didn’t have a slide for tears like mine. Would they resemble the violent cracks of broken glass or the climbing limbs of possibility? Both, maybe. Not that I’d succumbed to any, but in that moment I would’ve given anything to go back to the afternoon Mr. Thompson dug out those dusty slides. Ask him if it was possible to feel both grief and elation simultaneously. What would fractals of those tears look like?

Carly? Mr. Thompson’s voice was too close. I turned my head toward the sound, sliding my open Biology textbook over my notebook, hiding the sketch I’d started in first period. Doodles, that’s what my dad called them. I locked eyes with my teacher as he came up from behind. Of all the teachers I’d ever had, he was by far the coolest.

He knew I spent the majority of the school day penciling images on notebook paper rather than immersing myself in the most boring texts imaginable. I kept up with assignments enough to pass tests, but not enough to get out of after school detention. I wondered if he knew I skipped assignments on purpose. I refocused, felt the warmth of him watching me. I liked it when he watched.

The room slowly started to buzz. The low hum distracted me from the worried wrinkle that pinched the skin between Mr. Thompson’s blue eyes. Around the room, every face turned my direction. A few leaned toward their neighbor to whisper some thinly veiled comment. Most wore expressions of curiosity, some of ridicule, one or two of boredom. But other than Mr. Thompson, only one showed anything close to concern.

I locked eyes with the blonde in the first row. Phoebe Anderson wasn’t the most popular girl in our class, or the smartest, but she was perfect in all the ways that really mattered. And since my dad kicked my sister, Caroline, out of the house, Phoebe was all I had left.

I followed her gaze toward the classroom door. Through the glass I could make out two of them, standing there in their navy-blue suits, waiting for me to come out to the hall. I knew the look I’d see in their eyes. Pity. The one expression that made my skin crawl and my scalp prickle.

They just want to talk to you. Mr. Thompson’s voice was a confidential whisper. Quiet, but not quiet enough to keep the nosy juniors and seniors in my sixth period class from straining to hear. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder soothed the flicker of panic that sparked in my chest, squeezing, then releasing with every breath.

Who is it, Mr. T? A voice from the back of the room cut through the semi-silence. I caught the warning stare that Mr. Thompson shot at Bryce. Sitting two rows behind me, he was always irritating the kids around him. If it wasn’t juvenile fake farts, or sexual innuendos, it was spitballs or paper wads targeted at the losers in the class. Namely, me. Mr. T was pretty good about keeping him reined in during class, but I knew when I came back–if I came back–Bryce would be ready with a new annoyance.

I nodded at Mr. Thompson and gathered my books, locking eyes with Phoebe as I navigated my way toward the front of the room. I pushed past her desk, my fingertips grazing across the smooth laminate, hesitating just long enough for her fingers to skim my flesh. She looped her pinkie around mine briefly before pulling away to the safety of her lap.

I’ll call you, Phoebe whispered as I shimmied past her desk. I couldn’t tell her that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to accept phone calls from wherever I landed this time.

Twenty-eight pairs of eyes drilled into the back of my skull as I walked toward the door. Time slowed, ticking on the ancient classroom clock. I wrapped my fingers around the door handle, turned one last time toward Mr. Thompson who stood just a few feet behind me.

His crisp nod, coupled with the familiar warmth from his eyes, infused me with a drop of courage. I nodded back, swinging the door open wide. I’d been fine until then. But walking through the door, leaving the safety of that room–of him–caused the lump in my throat to surge, growing twice the size. The suits stood, waiting. A short heavy-set man and a too-tall woman, the Laurel and Hardy of Children’s Services, turned in unison to look at me. Maybe I’d have tears to analyze after all.

TWO

ASHER

The bell reverberated in Asher’s ears as he watched Carly disappear through the classroom door. His stomach plummeted, churning the pizza pocket he’d scarfed for lunch. The only thing keeping it contained as he dismissed his sixth period biology class was the fact that Jo Harrison had been one of the agents who’d ushered Carly away.

Asher wasn’t sure about much when it came to his ex fiancée, but the care Jo took with the cases she worked for the Department of Children’s Services had never been in question. His relationship with Jo had ended the night he’d first met Carly Dalton. It took a while before he realized that Carly already knew Jo.

In fact, without Jo’s help Asher never could have managed to get Carly into Millbrook. Jo was the one who’d helped him navigate his way around the red tape to secure the scholarship and make sure Carly had bussing. Jo’s testimony to the school board had made that happen.

Asher had seen the look on Jo’s face as she stood outside his classroom doorway, the grim set of her lips, eyes tired and sad. Something bad had to have happened to warrant Carly’s escort from school in the middle of the day. But she was with Jo. And right now that was the only peace of mind he had.

Students filed through the open doorway, already engaged in oblivious conversation. Someone pushed past him, jostling his shoulder. Asher’s eyes tracked to the senior lineman who muttered an apology as he exited into the hall–a boy in a man’s body, still coming to terms with his own girth.

She’ll be okay, you know. Phoebe Anderson’s pale blue eyes looked up at him. She’s tough, Mr. T.

Asher cleared his throat, fighting an unexpected clench of emotion. You’re right, Phoebe. She is. He forced a smile at Carly’s best friend.

I could let you know if I hear from her.

It was a generous offer, especially from a Millbrook student. This time Asher could only nod, turning the corners of his mouth in what he hoped would pass as an appreciative smile. He followed Phoebe into the hallway, watched her white-blonde hair bounce as she disappeared into the throng of teenagers.

Bodies washed past. The predictable ebb and flow of high school students as they traveled, unconcerned, from one class period to the next. He pulled his phone from his pocket, sent Jo a text.

What’s going on?

He hoped for a response but didn’t expect one. It had been almost a year since Jo broke off their engagement and moved out of their house. She’d managed to forgive him enough to stay civil. Carly was on her caseload, that was the only thing binding them at this point, and he didn’t deserve to ask for more. Lucky for him, fighting for the greater good of a minor had a tendency to bring people together, thank God.

From the beginning, Asher struggled with the red tape of children’s services–the due process of it all. In his years with Jo he’d seen too many kids placed in crosshairs, returned to guardians who’d been complicit in their abuse, simply because blood was somehow thicker than the possibility of a safe, happy home with strangers. It was a part of the system he’d never understand. And he’d dated Jo long enough to know they didn’t remove students from school unless it was absolutely necessary.

The stress of her job and his, their differing opinions of how to handle the turmoil of young lives being ripped apart, might have played a part in their decision to separate. Decision? The thought lodged the hard knot of a sarcastic laugh in his throat. Who was he kidding? It was his own overactive imagination, remnants of paranoia left over from childhood trauma, that sealed his fate. His shrink would be proud of him for that realization.

Carly trickled through Jo’s caseload a few months before the breakup, a relocation case from another jurisdiction he’d only heard about in passing. And when Asher pulled Carly off the floor of the truck stop bar, he’d had no idea there was a connection. In spite of his poor decisions that night, Carly gave Jo a reason to speak to Asher again. She linked them, kept Jo in his life, a feat for which Asher would always be grateful.

Getting Carly the scholarship to Millbrook Academy had been the easy part. It didn’t take a lot of convincing for the majority of the board once they heard her story. A young girl who’d lost her mom to cancer, lived with a dad spiraling into addiction-riddled depression, and whose sister had just aged out of any help the system could provide. All he could get out of Carly was that she’d left, headed off to Columbus with a boyfriend, while her younger sister fought alone.

But now that Carly was enrolled, people were talking. He was aware how it looked. A young male teacher going to bat for an underachieving female student, speaking up for her when other staff members complained about her lack of effort. He even signed up to monitor after school detention so Carly wouldn’t have to spend those hours in forced silence. He suspected she got enough silent treatment at home.

Asher slinked back into his classroom, shuffled papers on his desk as he waited for the next round of bodies to arrive. He glanced down at his silent phone, the screen still blank. The muscles in his arms jerked at the sound of the bell behind him. Two more periods before he could hunt down answers.

THREE

ASHER

Since the beginning of the school year, the teacher’s lounge speculation simmered like a bubbling cauldron of suspicion. Whispers of disapproval–he spent too much time with Carly, cared too much, took an abnormally high interest in the smoky-eyed girl in his sixth period biology class. All of it boiled down to one overarching belief–they must be having an affair.

Three people knew it wasn’t true–Carly, Jo, and himself–and regardless of what the gossip train at school would have him believe, those were the only three that mattered. Asher only ever wanted to help Carly, just like he’d wanted to help another lost girl all those years ago. Only this time, he swore he wouldn’t fail.

He navigated the emptying hall toward the front office. Rubbed the tightened coil of muscle at the back of his neck as the snake of a memory crept up his spine. Even today, when he saw Carly from a distance, a ghost-stricken arrhythmia thumped in his chest. She’d been his student for almost seven months, and he still had to hold in the instinct to call her Emily.

He was aware that his own checkered past had drawn him to Carly, the fact she bore a striking resemblance to a girl he should have saved eight years ago. His shrink had forced him to admit that much. But he’d only known Emily for a